


how things go down

by calciseptine



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Domestic, Future Fic, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the hottest summer day in Namimori on record and that baseball idiot has broken the goddamned air conditioner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how things go down

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is old, old, old. But what better way to start the new year, am I right?
> 
> Also, this is totally un-beta'd and I wrote nearly half of it while drunk. AAHAHAHAHAHA, CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP 2K15.

It is the hottest summer day in Namimori on record and that baseball idiot has broken the goddamned air conditioner.

"Don't fuck with it," Gokudera had explicitly told Yamamoto earlier that morning as he sat down at their small kitchen table, shooting a warning glare over the rim of his cherry-red reading glasses and the ceramic lip of his coffee cup.

"Don't worry, Hayato!" Yamamoto had laughed as he fiddled with the bits and bobs of the ancient machine. "I know what I'm doing."

Then Yamamoto had cranked one of the knobs too far left and the beast of an air conditioner—which, in Gokudera's approximation, was about as fed up with the heat as they were—made a very intriguing, high-pitched and stuttering mechanical noise before stopping altogether.

"Haha," Yamamoto chuckled, turning to Gokudera with a sheepish grin, his brown eyes contrite beneath the shade of his lashes. "Oops?"

Any other day it would have gone like this:  
\- Gokudera would have shouted at Yamamoto for being a moron  
\- Yamamoto would have placated Gokudera in one way or another  
\- thus assuaged, Gokudera would have called for repairs  
\- and Yamamoto's transgression would have been fixed within an hour

However, as it is the hottest summer day in Namimori on record and Fate liked to be a complete sadist whenever Gokudera was involved, this is not How Things Went Down.

Instead, this is How Things Go Down:  
\- Gokudera yells at Yamamoto for being a moron  
\- Yamamoto crowds into Gokudera's personal space and kisses Gokudera  
\- Gokudera tries to continue his tirade but cannot think past the slide of Yamamoto's mouth  
\- and eventually, Gokudera calms down enough to call the repairman.

Unfortunately, it seems air conditioners all over Namimori have been fiddled with when they _clearly_ should have been left alone, and the earliest a mechanic can get to their apartment would be tomorrow afternoon.

Access to a repairman wouldn't have normally been a problem, as the Vongola boasts two mechanics/engineering geniuses—read: Giannini and Irie Shouichi—and Gokudera has no qualms about using their genius for personal purposes. However, Giannini is in Italy and Irie Shouichi is at a robotics conference in Germany, and they have taken all their like-minded lackeys with them.

"Maybe we can fix it?" Yamamoto suggests with a smile when Gokudera slams his cell phone down on the table and proceeds to glare acidly at Yamamoto as though it is entirely his fault. (Which, for once, it actually is.) "How hard can it be?"

.

Ten minutes, four cigarettes, and many foul words later, the dead air conditioner accomplishes what hundreds, if not thousands, of hitmen and mafiosi have not: it completely and utterly defeats the Vongola's unstoppable duo of Gokudera Hayato and Yamamoto Takeshi.

.

Late morning drags into early afternoon, and the temperature continues to rise relentlessly.

After opening all the windows in their apartment to allow the stagnant air to circulate, Yamamoto goes in search of an old table fan. He thinks it is packed away in the disaster area of their storage closet, but Gokudera believes otherwise.

"We threw that away last time we moved," Gokudera tells Yamamoto as the other man mentally prepares himself to enter the tiny space sandwiched between the kitchen area and their only bathroom.

"I don't think we did." Yamamoto shrugs nonchalantly. "I thought I saw it in here a couple of months ago."

"Whatever," Gokudera mutters. Years ago, Yamamoto's thoughtless dismissal would have made him bristle; now, it seems silly to become irritated over something Yamamoto means nothing by. "Just don't break that too, if you do find it."

The storage closet is as densely packed and cluttered as one would expect of two young men in their early twenties; searching for anything in the precarious stacks of junk would be a intimidating task by anyone's standards. This task is particularly daunting, however, as their storage closet doubles as a weapons locker. It is filled to the brim not only with the usual odds and ends of normal life—cleaning supplies and outdated magazines, tool boxes and old sports equipment and an abundance of plastic grocery bags—but with the scraps leftover from their other, more secret lives as well—empty clips and unloaded guns, bombs with unfinished wiring and half-empty jars of powdered chemicals, wooden practice swords and blunt knives that have been wiped clean.

By some minor miracle, Yamamoto finds the table fan. He plugs it into the wall, sets it directly in front of Gokudera, who is spread starfish across the living room carpet, and turns it on. The smooth sound of the plastic blades rotating is interrupted by a soft but grinding click every three seconds, and Gokudera immediately recalls the reason as to why he thought he had thrown the fan away.

A very heartfelt groan escapes Gokudera. There is never any reprieve from what feels like an unending string of annoyances.

"I need to go to practice," says Yamamoto as he crouches over Gokudera, his fingers pushing Gokudera's long hair away from his face. "Will you be alright?"

"I will be once you leave," Gokudera retorts sharply, but Yamamoto takes no offense. He never reacts to Gokudera the way Gokudera expects or wants him to, but that is, perhaps, why they've managed to fall together and stay together.

"I'll be back by eight," Yamamoto tells him.

.

Gokudera spends the majority of his afternoon in front of the pathetic whirr of the fan, trying to concentrate on his biophysics textbook and failing miserably. He strips down to his boxers, pulls his hair up into a high, stubby ponytail, and clips any stray strands back with an array of bobby pins. He doesn't even light a cigarette the air is so stifling; he merely shoves an unlit stick between his teeth and rolls it from one corner of his mouth to the other in a futile attempt to sate his body's demand for nicotine while remaining cool. By the time Yamamoto comes home, just after twilight with the hum of crickets in the air and the heat of the day is finally beginning to wane, Gokudera is very nearly comatose from the heat and nicotine deprivation.

"Hayato," Yamamoto says cheerfully as he comes in, as though he's completely unaffected by the oppressive temperature. "I'm back!"

It's too hot to flip Yamamoto the customary "welcome home" bird.

"Hayato, have you just been lying there all day?" Yamamoto laughs as he toes out of his dusty sneakers and sets his duffel bag by the door. The taller man then pads over where Gokudera is sprawled across the carpeted living room, his slender limbs spread out like a particularly disgruntled octopus. "Ah, come on, it isn't that bad!"

Since the energy it would take to glare at Yamamoto as he crouches next to him would only mean generating more heat, Gokudera continues to stare at the ceiling as though it were the most interesting thing in the entire universe—which, since all of Gokudera's brain cells have been roasted slowly inside the pit of his skull, is the unfortunate and probable truth. Besides, he hasn't forgiven Yamamoto for breaking the air conditioner, and he is quite content with ignoring the idiot until either a) the air conditioner is repaired or b) the heat wave passes.

This is when something terribly and wonderfully cold comes into contact with Gokudera's bare stomach.

Gokudera most certainly _does not_ yelp as he flies into a sitting position, his unlit cigarette dropping from his lips. "What the _fuck_?" he snarls.

Yamamoto merely smiles and holds up a small plastic tub of soft green gelato and a plastic spoon. The small container is covered in icy flakes as it defrosts and looks so unimaginably delicious that, for a moment, Gokudera forgets that he's supposed to be ignoring Yamamoto.

"I stopped by that Italian shop on the way home," the idiot says with a gentle smile. Both of them know that the Italian shop that sells this particular brand of gelato—the green tea flavor that Gokudera secretly loves—is on the other side of town and in no way "on the way home". Yamamoto must have jogged the not inconsiderable distance from the store to their apartment, as the gelato has barely begun to melt. "I wanted to say I'm sorry for breaking the air conditioner."

Later, Gokudera will blame the heat for the blush he feels score his cheeks as he takes the gelato and spoon from Yamamoto. If pressed, he will also say it was too warm to shove the moron away when Yamamoto laughs delightedly and presses a kiss hotter than the day had been against the pulse of Gokudera's throat, lingering a moment too long to be comfortable.

"I need a quick shower while you eat that," Yamamoto says when he pulls away. "Then I'll make some cold somen noodles, if you're still hungry?"

"Yeah," Gokudera says distractedly as the cold of the gelato's container burns against his hot palm, as he pretends not to notice the lazy curl of Yamamoto's smile. "That sounds good."

.

The heat of the day lessens but doesn't dissipate as the evening lengthens. Gokudera manages to focus on his school work long enough to muscle through a chapter, while Yamamoto pushes the small coffee table in the living room aside and stretches out beside him on the carpet. The distance between them is enough so that the heat doesn't become unbearable, yet is still scant enough to be distracting. Yamamoto hums nonsense in the back of his throat—it is barely audible over the buzz of the fan—and runs the tips of his fingers lazily over Gokudera's ribs, down his side, and into the small dip in his back. By the time Yamamoto leans over and scrapes his teeth against Gokudera's ear, the lines of text Gokudera had been trying to read had blurred into gibberish.

"Fuck," Gokudera hisses as Yamamoto's tongues slides, slick and hot, into the crevice behind his earlobe. His pen falls out from between his fingers. " _Fuck._ "

Yamamoto hums more nonsense against the column of Gokudera's throat and slings one of his long legs over Gokudera's body, rising from the floor to straddle Gokudera's back. Gokudera can feel him, already half-hard, against his lower spine.

"Right here?" Yamamoto asks, bends so that he can breathe the suggestion into Gokudera's flesh. The hint of a smile and the barest nip of teeth move against Gokudera's neck.

"If you make a mess, you clean it up," Gokudera replies. His voice not nearly as sharp as he would like, and the whine that it turns into makes Yamamoto laugh softly as his fingers slip beneath the elastic hem of Gokudera's boxers. 

"Alright," Yamamoto says. He shifts off Gokudera's body and onto his knees. Then he wraps his large, calloused hands around Gokudera's hips and pulls on Gokudera's pelvis, forcing Gokudera's upper chest and elbows to bear the brunt of his weight. The side of Gokudera's face presses into the carpet and the plastic frame of his glasses digs into the bridge of his nose. Yamamoto's thighs rest on either side of Gokudera's, and Gokudera can feel the contraction of each muscle against him as Yamamoto leans over him once more, wrapping a firm arm around Gokudera's waist to anchor him.

The room is almost too stifling to continue, even with the faint breeze from the fan washing over them. The sensation of Yamamoto's tongue pressing against each of Gokudera's vertebrae is muted by the heat. It is as though the combustion low in Gokudera's gut cannot surpass the sweltering temperature.

Sweat beads against Gokudera's hairline. It pools in the small of his back and becomes a slick sheen over every inch of skin. Yamamoto greedily licks it all away, leaving behind a descending trail of cool. By the time he reaches the dimples in Gokudera's lower back, Gokudera's head is swimming, his breaths are ragged and wet against his braced forearm, and his blood simmers in his arteries and veins.

"Would you fuckin' hurry up?" Gokudera snarls as Yamamoto teases the soft flesh just above the curve of his ass. "Idiot."

Yamamoto chuckles but complies, tugging Gokudera's boxers down his thighs. With a soft grunt, he flips Gokudera onto his back and pulls Gokudera's boxers the rest of the way down, over his thin calves and bony toes, and tosses it away. Then—with the aid of his wiry and surprising strength—Yamamoto grabs Gokudera's hips and lifts. He tugs Gokudera's legs up and up and up.

The sudden change in orientation causes all the blood to rush to Gokudera's brain. For a moment, his vision is flooded by gray; when the grain clears, he's almost entirely inverted. His sweaty thighs stick together and his back sticks to Yamamoto's chest, but Gokudera is otherwise almost fully supported by Yamamoto's arms. 

With his glasses askew on his face and his neck at an uncomfortable angle, Gokudera's new position is awkward and borderline painful. He stares at his knobby, rug-burned knees and his thin, pale feet as they point towards the white, spackled ceiling. He opens his mouth to complain when Yamamoto's mouth suddenly closes over his hole and _sucks_.

" _Shit_!" Gokudera swears. His thighs instantly fall apart with a faint, wet smack. Yamamoto wraps his arms more tightly around Gokudera and buries deeper into the angle of Gokudera's thighs. It's one of the most erotic things Gokudera has ever seen: Yamamoto's face is flushed coral pink, his short hair sticks to the sweaty angles of his face, and his amber eyes are narrow, sly, and calculating like they only ever are when he's fighting or fucking. It's a dangerous look that turns causes every nerve in Gokudera's brain to misfire, to arch his back up into the obscene caress of Yamamoto's mouth, to open his dry lips and hoarsely demand, "More—!"

Yamamoto complies. He presses the broad flat of his tongue against Gokudera and licks a rough stripe up across his perineum to his balls, sucking one into his mouth. He scrapes his teeth against Gokudera's sac, then releases it and gives its twin the same, brutal treatment. The heat of Yamamoto's mouth should be unbearable, but the sensation just makes Gokudera shake.

Gokudera's fingernails leave bloodless half moons on Yamamoto's thighs and his toes curl almost painfully tight as Yamamoto moves his attention back to his hole. A choked whine escapes Gokudera's clenched teeth when Yamamoto's tongue wriggles past the ring of muscle, pushing and pushing until it twists _inside_ him, thick and heavy.

Gokudera doesn't know how long they stay like that, Yamamoto thrusting his tongue in and out of him as he squirms in Yamamoto's iron hold and tries to hold onto the sounds attempting to crawl out of his throat, whimpers and whines and mewls. It's impossible to think with his blood pounding in his ears, in the heat of the room, as Yamamoto bears down upon him. 

" _Nngh!_ " Gokudera grunts breathlessly when Yamamoto reaches up and sticks his thumb in underneath his tongue, pulling Gokudera open even wider. "Fuck—that's—"

Yamamoto scrapes his teeth over the sensitized skin, and all of Gokudera's protests die between his throat and the back of his teeth. He gives Gokudera's hole one last, oddly chaste kiss before he pulls away. He has to help Gokudera out of his impossible contortion, rearranges Gokudera's limbs so he can lie back across the carpeted floor. The rough fibers stick to Gokudera's sweaty back and chafe his flushed skin.

"You look good like that," Yamamoto murmurs as his fingertips skitter up Gokudera's quaking thighs. "So perfect, Hayato."

Yamamoto's praise is almost always discomforting—nothing about Gokudera is perfect, or good, and it's a terrible lie to say otherwise—but Gokudera is too busy trying to catch his breath, to stop the powerful thunder of his heart, to protest. The heat—between them and in the air—has obviously addled both their brains.

Yamamoto's hands climb higher and higher and higher, up Gokudera's abdomen and chest, until one hand is pressed palm down against Gokudera's throat and the other has three fingers inside Gokudera's mouth.

"Hayato," Yamamoto groans as Gokudera undulates his tongue against the length of Yamamoto's fingers, spit flooding his mouth. "Hayato."

Though he would never admit it, Gokudera hoards these embarrassing exchanges. The moments when he forgets to be angry are rare; the times when Yamamoto allows the smile to fall off his face, when he snarls as easily as Gokudera, when he's honest, are rarer still. But their veneers are thin, melted away by their hard-earned intimacy and the temperature, making Gokudera softer and Yamamoto rougher.

It is... freeing.

"Suck it harder," Yamamoto commands harshly as he rubs his middle finger against Gokudera's tongue, petting the length of it. Gokudera, still breathless, bites Yamamoto knuckles in retaliation even as he complies. Spit pools in the corners of his mouth and spills from the stuffed corners as he tastes the rough salt and keratin of Yamamoto's callused fingers. His eyes hooded, Yamamoto purrs, "There's a good boy."

Gokudera bites him again, and the noise that escapes Yamamoto could not be a gasp, could not be a whimper, could not be a plea—it is all three. He jerks his sopping fingers from Gokudera's mouth and, in an instant, is pressing them against Gokudera's already loose hole. There is a brief flash of resistance, yet as always, Gokudera eventually yields to him.

Sex has become familiar to Gokudera over the years. It is as simple as hunger and as addictive as nicotine; he gives into it now, just as he had resisted it in his youth. This push and pull relationship he has with Yamamoto is as inevitable as death, and in junior high, Gokudera had avoided such truth. He resented Yamamoto back then, despised him, for being able to accept something so futile so easily, as he waited patiently for Gokudera to do the same.

Yamamoto's passivity still angers Gokudera, but oddly, not as much as it soothes him.

When Gokudera is stretched enough, his hole loose and sloppy, Yamamoto removes his fingers and replaces it with his cock. He pushes relentlessly inside Gokudera; it is not without thought or care, as Yamamoto does go slow enough for Gokudera to adjust, to hiss as the sharp pain mellows into throbbing pleasure, but feels unstoppable. Gokudera grits and bares his teeth at Yamamoto as his heart pounds in his chest.

Yamamoto's dick is big. It stretches Gokudera wide and leaves him breathless, unable to focus on anything other than how if splits him open. Afterwards, Gokudera always wonders whether the intensity he feels is pleasure or pain, but in the moment, all he wants is more, and more, and more.

"So beautiful," Yamamoto praises as he settles, fully seated. His balls press against the swell of Gokudera's ass. "So good to me."

"Do you ever shut up?" Gokudera snarls as his fingers bite desperately into the meat of Yamamoto's shoulders. Yamamoto's hands are rough against Gokudera's waist as they hold him in place. "Always saying stupid shit—"

Yamamoto pulls out and snaps back in. It knocks the breath from Gokudera's lungs, millions of compound molecules of carbon dioxide scattering into the still air. Every nerve beneath his skin feels hypersensitive; he is aware of everything, from the stagnant hot air to the imperfections of Yamamoto's skin to the scratch of cheap carpet against his flesh.

"I love you," Yamamoto tells him as he fucks him. "I love you more than anything."

Gokudera hates Yamamoto when they have sex. Yamamoto had singled out Gokudera when they were barely more than children, chose Gokudera in the same way he had chosen the Vongola: quickly, surely, and unwaveringly. He knows Gokudera better than anyone and he knows when Gokudera is weakest, when Gokudera is vulnerable enough to accept his praise. And Gokudera hates how easily Yamamoto's praise and honesty sinks into his skin, beyond his muscles and settling heavily into the hollows of his bones. He hates how defenseless he is in these moments, how desperately he needs Yamamoto's reassurances of how much Yamamoto loves him, of how much Yamamoto desires him, and of how Yamamoto will never leave him.

But most of all, he hates how much he craves Yamamoto.

Yamamoto's love is not unlike the summer heat, Gokudera thinks dizzily as Yamamoto pushes inside him, the sensation of his cock against Gokudera's prostrate secondary to how every cell in Gokudera's body strains to be closer. Yamamoto's love is oppressive; it is encompassing; its intensity waxes and wanes; and despite the annoyance, Gokudera prefers how it lingers to its absence.

"You're everything," Yamamoto pants as his pace begins to falter. "I would do—anything— _anything_ —for you—"

"Shut— _up_ —" Gokudera chokes, hips twisting violently upwards to meet Yamamoto's hard thrusts. His throat is tight and his vision is blurred. He cannot tell if it's because the temperature has finally caught up to him or if it's because of how overloaded he feels. "Just— _ahhh_ —right there, fuck—"

Yamamoto grinds into Gokudera one final time, dick an unyielding pressure on Gokudera's prostate, and the tension that had built inside Gokudera releases all at once as he comes. It overwhelms him—and between one struggling breath and the next, Gokudera lets go.

.

The slowly dissipating heat left over from the long, scorching day breaks suddenly after midnight. It surprises Gokudera; he is lying naked in bed when he shivers abruptly. He reaches for the thin cotton sheet he had thrown onto the floor when he realizes that he's actually _cold_ for the first time since the air conditioner had broken.

So instead of grabbing the blanket, Gokudera rolls off the mattress, pulls on a pair of jeans, and grabs a pack of Mild Sevens off the kitchen counter, and steps out onto the tiny wooden porch. The coolness of night feels refreshing and gentle against Gokudera's skin as he leans against the railing and smokes a calming cigarette on their tiny porch. He looks out at the urban expanse of Namimori as he works steadily through the mellow tobacco; their apartment complex is built into the mountains that rise past the city and, from their balcony, Gokudera can see the steel and glass buildings that dominate the valley. The port lies beyond that, immense freight ships alongside smaller fishing boats, their yellow and red lights reflecting off the water like stars twinkling against the darkness of the evening.

Gokudera is nearly finished with his cigarette when the screen door rattles open and Yamamoto steps onto the balcony. Gokudera releases a plume of soft gray smoke into the air in lieu of a greeting, but Yamamoto does not—and never has, and never will—take offense.

"Aren't you cold?" Yamamoto asks as he joins Gokudera, resting his forearms against the rail and smiling.

Gokudera inhales deeply, the end of his cigarette burning bright as the tobacco combusts. He holds the poisonous, nicotine-laden smoke in his lungs for as long as he can, then lets it all go slowly. It curls in the air, thick and opaque, before it rises and scatters, as insubstantial as Gokudera's resistance. 

"A little," Gokudera concedes.

Yamamoto says nothing as he unfolds from his position and moves to stand behind Gokudera. He wraps his long arms around Gokudera's waist and rests his cheek against Gokudera's shoulder, his face pressed against the column of Gokudera's neck. It can still be hard for Gokudera to accept affection—he's seen what love can do to people, how it can twist them until they break—but he can accept this, in this moment. 

"I'm sorry I broke the air conditioner, Hayato," Yamamoto whispers as Gokudera flicks the ash from the end of his cigarette. His warm mouth is welcome against Gokudera's skin. "You told me to leave it alone and I didn't. I thought I could fix it."

Genuine apologies are equally as hard for Gokudera to accept as affection, but the stillness of the night, the relief brought by the dropping temperature, and the soothing effect of nicotine eases that normal difficulty. Gokudera sighs, snubs the ember of his cigarette out on the railing, and tosses the filter into an old coffee can tucked into the corner of their porch.

"It's fine," he says quietly and honestly, relaxing into Yamamoto's embrace and reaching up to cover Yamamoto's hands with his own. "I don't care."

And as they stand there together, the cold creeping into their bodies, Gokudera finally forgives Yamamoto.


End file.
